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Heart  Throbs  and 
Hoof  Beats 

Poems  of  Track,  Stable  and  Fireside 


By  WALTER  PALMER 


COVER  BY  RODNEY  THOMPSON 
FROM  THE  PRESS  OF 

HlLLIS-MuRGOTTEN   Co.,   SAN  JoSE,    CALIFORNIA 
1922 


Copyrighted  1922,  by  Walter  Palmer 

&L. 


Qr-f- 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Toast— The   Horse   .....     9 

Hearthstone  Meditations 10 

Unfailing  Signs 14 

The  Hobles  Sadie  Wore 16 

A  Friend  ....  27 

Uhlan   .  ..  28 

Those  Old  High  Wheels...  .  30 

E.  F.  Geers ..  33 

That  Democrat  Wagon  of  Dad's ..  35 

Away 39 

The  Secretary  Man 40 

Reflections  of  a  Rover 44 

The  Chestnut  Horse  and  Joe 46 

The  Old-Time  Fair 51 

Charles-  E.  Dean 52 

Casey  Jones 54 

Back   Home 57 

Reveries  59 

When  She  Was  Here 63 

The  Road  to  Everywhere 65 

The  Picture  on  the  Wall 66 

How  the  Doctor  Lost  and  Won 72 

The  Country  Store  78 

Budd  Doble 82 

McMahon's    Boy    84 

Twilight    88 

The  Old  Homestead  89 

The  Old  White  Fire  Team 92 

A  Real  Optimist  96 

The  Blacksmith   Shop  99 

The  Sport  Worth  While : 102 

Finis   .  ...106 


524244 


IN  APPRECIATION 

HE  AUTHOR  wishes  to  express  his 
gratitude  to  The  Horseman,  The 
Horse  Review,  The  Show  Horse  Chronicle 
and  the  several  gentlemen  who  have  as- 
sisted in  securing  the  pictures  contained 
herein. 


FOREWORD 

Did  you  ever,  dear  reader,  really  love  a  horse?  Have 
you  been  one  of  those  fortunate  mortals  who  have  lived 
a  portion  of  their  lives  out  in  the  gorgeous  freedom  of 
God's  open  country?  Have  you  ever  as  a  child  confided 
your  joys  and  sorrows  to  a  pony  or  poured  out  to  some 
equine  friend,  tried  and  true,  the  anguish  of  your  soul? 
Have  you  ever  looked  into  those  great,  limpid,  hazel  eyes 
when  all  the  world  seemed  against  you  and  read  therein 
the  promise  to  share  your  successes  and  reverses  through 
the  sunshine  and  shadow  of  life?  If  so,  then  there  has 
come  to  you  that  supreme  satisfaction  that  comes  from 
an  intimate  association  with  man's  best  friend,  a  satisfac- 
tion which  can  not  emanate  elsewhere  and  which  all  the 
mechanical  things  in  Christendom  can  not  produce. 

I  have  come  to  look  with  compassion  upon  those  un- 
fortunate individuals  into  whose  lives  there  has  never 
come  the  lasting  influence  of  AN  OLD  ROAN  MARE ; 
possibly  she  was  as  white  as  the  drifting  snows  that  hid 
the  hedge  rows  in  winter ;  mayhap  she  was  as  black  as 
the  cawing  crows  that  voiced  a  vigorous  protest  at  your 
untimely  intrusian;  perhance  she  was  the  color  of  your 
own  chubby  hands  in  butter-nut  time.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
a  memory  of  her  faithfulness  and  constancy  has  abided 
with  you  on  down  through  the  years  and  prompted  you  to 
purer  motives  and  higher  ideals.  Undaunted  by  heat  or 
cold,  she  served  you  on  festive  occasions,  and  brought 
succor  and  relief  in  the  hour  of  your  affliction.  Through 
the  inky  blackness  of  the  night  and  against  the  fury  of  the 
tempest,  the  old  mare  brought  you  home,  where  warmth 
and  comfort  and  loved  ones  awaited  your  coming,  and 
where  her  deeds  and  the  deeds  of  her  progeny  were  an 
oft-told  tale.  The  ingenuity  of  man  may  devise  other 
methods  of  tilling  the  soil ;  uncertain  devices  will  emanci- 
pate our  animals  from  the  drudgery  of  menial  labor,  but 
time  can  not  efface  the  record  or  dim  the  achievements 
of  those  sturdy,  faithful  steeds  whose  service  so  largely 
aided  and  abetted  the  pioneers  in  the  development  of  this 
great  country,  and  so  to  their  memory  and  to  the  friends 
of  horses  everywhere,  this  book  is  respectfully  dedicated. 

— W.  B.  P. 


Man's  love  of  his  horse  is  not  a  thing  of  yesterday.  It 
is  age-old  and  has  grown  greater  the  further  removed  he 
has  become  from  the  dawn  of  time.  As  he  emerged  from 
the  silent  day  of  savagery  perfumed  with  the  hidden 
flowers  of  unknowing  innocence,  and  began  his  long  course 
through  the  silver  silence  of  the  night,  to  his  ultimate 
estate  of  Man,  always  has  he  been  accompanied  by  his 
never- failing,  never-faltering  Horse.  Side  by  side  they 
have  come  down  the  illimitable  Corridors  of  Time  and  in 
the  company  of  his  horse,  Man  has  ever  escaped  the  sheer 
weight  of  unbearable  loneliness.  So  the  ties  of  comrade- 
ship and  the  sense  of  security  have  become  interwoven 
into  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  very  heart  of  mankind 
and  the  Love  of  his  Horse  is  as  world-wide  as  are  those 
thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yield  proof  that  they  were 
born  for  Immortality.  "The  Idea  of  Immortality,  that 
like  a  sea  has  ebbed  and  flowed  in  the  human  heart,  with 
its  countless  waves  of  hope  and  fear  beating  against  the 
shores  and  rocks  of  time  and  fate,  was  not  born  of  any 
book,  nor  of  any  creed,  nor  of  any  religion.  It  was  born 
of  Human  Affection,  and  it  will  continue  to  ebb  and  flow 
beneath  the  mists  and  clouds  of  doubt  and  darkness  as 
long  as  Love  kisses  the  lips  of  Death."  Human  Affec- 
tion! The  cry  of  the  hungry  heart!  The  unutterable 
yearning  for  that  sympathy  of.  the  one  kindred  soul  which 
will  really  Know  and  Understand  and  Console! — THUS 
THE  HORSE  ABIDES. 

— H.  J.  KRUM  in  the  Show  Horse  Chronicle. 


The  Horse  is  the  thing; 

You  may  have  the  thrills 

That  come  with  the  gasoline, 

You  may  have  the  spills 

And  the  pace  that  kills 

In  your  auto  or  flying  machine, 

For  the  flyer  that  flies 

In  the  vaulted  skies 

Must  come  to  earth  if  his  engine  dies, 

But  the  fire  that  lies 

In  a  horse's  eyes 

Is  the  spark  that  lives  and  intensifies, 

So  here's  to  the  horse 

—THE  KING— 


Page     nine 


JUST  A  BOY,  A  DOG,  A  TROTTER 

HEARTHSTONE  MEDITATIONS 


When  the  colts  are  snug  and  cozy 

From  the  chilling  Winter  blast, 
And  you're  all  alone  and  dozy 

Just  a-dreaming  of  the  past, 
Then  the  rudy  glowing  embers 

Fitful  shadows  paint  for  me 
Scenes  when  life  was  light  and  happy 

And  my  heart  was  fancy  free ; 
Just  a  boy,  a  dog,  a  trotter — 

Ah,  Fd  give  my  very  all 
Just  to  live  those  old  days  over 

When  I  slept  out  in  a  stall. 

You  can  have  your  golf  and  polo, 
And  your  yatching,  if  you  please, 


Page    ten 


JUST  A  COLORED  GROOM  A  STRUMMING 


I  can  tell  you  of  a  pastime 

Worth  a  dozen  such  as  these, 
Get  a  trotter  or  a  show  horse 

For  there's  naught  on  Earth  compares 
To  the  fun  a  fellow  really  has 

Who  does  the  glad  Fall  fairs, 
Throw  away  the  pepsin  tablets, 

Smash  the  bottles  one  and  all, 
Just  forget  your  pains  and  troubles, 

Get  back  to  Nature  in  a  stall. 

There's  no  orchestra  a-playing, 

There's  no  giddy  cabaret, 
Just  a  colored  groom  a-strumming 

On  a  banjo  far  away, 
"Old  Black  Joe"  and  "Suwanee  River" 


Page    el*  0  e  n 


Sweet  as  from  a  linnet's  throat 
While  your  trotter  stops  his  munching 

So  you  needn't  miss  a  note; 
You  may  have  your  prima  donnas, 

For  to  me  the  best  of  all 
Are  the  melodies  of  nature 

That  you  hear  out  in  a  stall. 

You  can  talk  about  your  Biltmores 

And  your  Blackstones  and  Savoys, 
With  their  taxicabs  and  telephones 

And  bell-hops  and  their  noise, 
You  can  have  your  elevators 

And  your  marble  lobbies  fine, 
But  I'll  take  a  pair  of  blankets 

And  a  big  box  stall  for  mine; 
You  won't  need  a  call  for  breakfast, 

There's  no  scheme  you  can  propose 
That  will  wake  you  half  so  surely 

As  a  hungry,  velvet  nose. 

No  electric  lights  to  puzzle 

And  no  gas  to  kill  you  dead, 
Just  a  good,  old-fashioned  lantern 

From  the  rafters  overhead, 
But  its  sombre  scintilations 

Seem  to  beckon  you  to  stray 
To  the  waiting  arms  of  Morpheus 

When  your  trotter's  "put  away," 
There's  no  ostermoor  or  feathers 

That  a  landlord  ever  saw 
That  will  give  you  half  the  comfort 

Of  a  bunk  out  in  the  straw. 


Page    /n>e/ve 


There's  no  costly  lavatory, 

There's  no  valet  to  be  fed, 
Just  a  bucket  of  cold  water 

And  a  rub-rag's  all  you  need, 
You'll  find  a  broken  mirror 

On  the  boot-board  over  there 
And  a  bit  of  comb  provided 

You've  not  parted  .with  your  hair, 
There'll  be  no  manicurist 

And  no  barber  within  call. 
Neither  will  you  need  a  doctor 

If  you  sleep  out  in  a  stall. 

Oh  ye  weary  men  of  millions 

With  your  multitude  of  cares, 
Don't  you  know  the  Silent  Reaper 

Creeps  upon  you  unawares  ? 
Get  yourself  a  good  game  trotter, 

One  of  those  that  always  tries, 
There's  no  nobler,  truer  comrade 

Underneath  the  vaulted  skies. 
If  you'd  live  long  and  be  happy 

From  early  Spring  till  Fall 
Cut  out  care  and  cast  your  fortune 

With  a  trotter  in  a  stall. 


Page    thirteen 


'THEY  CHOOSE  THIS  SPOT  TO  SETTLE  DOWN 


UNFAILING    SIGNS 


The  melancholy  days  are  here 

I  know  it  by  the  chill 
That  permeates  the  atmosphere 

Up  here  upon  the  hill. 

The  wind  is  sighing  through  the  trees 
The  leaves  are  turning  brown, 

But  there's  a  surer  sign  than  these, 
The  city  folks  have  moved  to  town. 

Alas,  it  seems  but  yesterday 

Since  they  arrived  upon  the  scene, 

So  fast  the  seasons  fly  away, 

So  fast  the  Summers  come  between. 


Page    fourteen 


Far  from  the  city's  madding  strife 
They  chose  this  spot  to  settle  down, 

And  I  can't  see  to  save  my  life 

Just  why  our  neighbors  move  to  town. 

For  who  would  give  the  worth-while  joys 
That  we  accrue  here  every  day, 

For  all  the  city's  smoke  and  noise 

And  all  its  gladsome,  great,  white  way. 

Down  here  we  walk  about  serene 

In  perfect  safety  any  time, 
Up  there  they  hit  you  on  the  bean 

And  rob  you  of  your  only  dime. 

Down  here  a  neighbor  is  a  chap 

Who  every  morning  says  Hello, 
Up  there  you  may  not  know  mayhap 
The  man  who  rents  the  flat  below. 

The  robin  and  the  lark  have  flown, 
The  red  squirrel's  antics  ape  a  clown, 

And  Winter's  coming,  be  it  known, 
When  city  folks  go  back  to  town. 


Page    fifteen 


THE   HOBBLES   SADIE  WORE 

(Perhaps  none  of  our  great  pacing  mares  were  more 
popular  than  was  Citation  2:01^.  The  ease  and  grace 
with  which  she  wore  her  hobbles,  the  contented  manner 
in  which  she  trailed  an  opponent,  and  the  cyclonic  speed 
with  which  she  came  at  the  finish  are  all  impressed  in- 
dellibly  upon  the  memory  of  the  writer  and  assisted 
largely  in  making  "Sadie,"  as  she  was  familiarly  known, 
a  public  idol.) 


"Say,  Kelly,  you  got  any  hobbles? 

Why,  what  are  you  laughing  at, 
Do  you  think  I  can't  drive  a  pacer 

Because  I  am  big  and  fat, 
Do  you  think  'cause  I  use  an  auto 

That  I've  laid  down  the  reins 
And  lost  all  the  bright  red  corpuscles 

That  raced  in  my  boyhood  veins? 
Do  you  think  'cause  I've  stopped  my  drinking 

And  grown  a  bit  more  staid 
That  I've  forgotten  the  noblest  horse 

The  good  Lord  ever  made? 
Yes,  Kelly,  I've  got  a  pacer 

But  she  breaks  when  I  try  to  race 
And  I  want  a  set  of  hobbles 

To  keep  her  on  a  pace, 
She  does  not  always  need  them 

And  then  again  I'll  swear 
To  get  her  a  set  of  hobbles 

Like  Old  Sadie  used  to  wear. 


Page    sixteen 


You  must  remember  Sadie 

\Yho  turned  full  many  a  trick, 
I  fer  real  name  was  Citation 

And  we  called  her  driver  Dick. 
You  saw  the  race,  I'm  certain. 

And  must  recall  the  mare, 
I  can  see  her  just  as  plainly 

As  she  was  standing  there : 
Brown  and  modest,  not  as  handsome 

As  this  younger  mare  of  mine. 
But  with  a  wealth  of  something 

That  made  her  almost  divine; 
Say,  my  mare  would  look  just  like  her 

\Yhen  she  turned  around  to  score, 
If  you'd  sell  me  a  set  of  hobbles 

Just  like  Old  Sadie  wore. 

''Did  I  buy  her?     No,  I  bred  her; 

Remember  the  old  roan  mare 
That  I  drove  when  I  was  a-courting 

And  raced  at  the  county  fair? 
Do  you  mind  the  year  I  rented 

The  farm  on  Coval  creek, 
The  crops  were  most  a  failure 

And  the  family  had  all  been  sick ; 
I  was  mighty  short  of  horses 

But  the  old  mare  pulled  me  through 
'Cause  when  the  big  ones  faltered 

She  just  did  the  work  of  two. 
And  when  they  puffed  and  wilted 

She  seemed  to  thrive  instead, 
A  cross  of  Hal  and  Bashaw 

On  a  dash  of  thorobred. 


"My  landlord,  Old  Man  Skinner, 


Page     seventeen 


"A  DAPPER  MAN  IN  GRAY" 

Wouldn't  trust  me  ior  my  plows 
Till  I  gave  him  a  chattel  mortgage 

On  my  horses  and  my  cows, 
And  Kelly,  nothing  hurt  me  so  in  twenty  years 

As  the  name  of  that  old  roan  mare 
When  I  saw  it  through  the  tears. 

The  note  fell  due  in  August 
And  we'd  worked  and  saved  and  planned 

Till  on  July  twenty-second 
We  had  all  the  cash  on  hand. 

How  I  recall  the  morning 
For  my  wife  had  helped  me  start 

And  had  placed  the  eggs  and  butter 
In  the  bottom  of  the  cart, 

The  whole  world  seemed  so  happy 
And  my  heart  so  light  and  free 


Page    eighteen 


N 


As  I  thought  how  all  the  neighbors 
Would  surely  envy  me. 

The  thrush  and  lark  and  linnet 
Seemed  to  revel  in  their  song 

And  I  hummed  forgotten  ballads 
As  the  old  mare  jogged  along. 

"Well,  when  I  got  to  the  city 

I  had  a  drink  or  two, 
And  I  soon  forgot  old  Skinner 

And  the  errands  I  had  to  do. 
I  wandered  about  from  bar  to  bar 

Till  a  band  began  to  play 
And  then  I  remembered  the  races 

Were  going  on  that  day. 
I  hadn't  seen  a  race  in  years 

But  it  sort  o'  brought  me  back 
Arid  I  dropped  in  behind  the  music 

And  followed  it  to  the  track. 
The  free-for-all  was  scoring 

And  a  dapper  man  in  gray 
Was  writing  on  a  blackboard 

And  then  rubbing  it  away; 
Talk  about  your  school  ma'ams 

That  are  handy  with  the  chalk, 
He  was  surely  some  professor, 

He  could  write  and  rub  and  talk. 
A  sporty  looking  fellow 

Who  owned  some  racing  stock 
Informed  me  he  could  write  a  book 

And  that  his  name  was  Jock, 
He  seemed  to  figure  a  little 

And  then  he'd  turn  and  say, 


Page     nineteen 


Well,  come  on,  boys,  and  pick  'em  out 
Before  they  get  away. 


"I  had  always  kept  my  wallet 

Tied  up  with  a  buckskin  string 
In  my  right  hand  trousers  pocket 

And  had  held  on  to  the  thing 
With  a  vice-like  grasp  to  shield  it 

From  the -semblance  of  all  harm, 
When  my  sporty  friend  politely 

Touched  me  on  the  other  arm; 
You  see,  he  said,  my  brother  owns 

The  brown  mare  with  the  straps 
And  another  brother  drives  her, 

And  I  thought  that  you  perhaps 
Would  like  to  make  a  little  money, 

For  it's  fixed  for  her  to  win, 
Those  hobbled  birds  will  help  her, 

She'll  simply  ramble  in ; 
Better  get  down  fifty  plunkers 

'Fore  my  brother  bets  his  wads, 
You'll  never  get  another  chance, 

He'll  surely  change  the  odds. 
Something  seemed  to  tell  me,  Kelly, 

That  the  kid  was  on  the  square, 
So  I  peeled  off  fifty  dollars 

And  bet  it  on  the  mare, 
And  as  1  passed  it  up  to  Jock, 

'Straight  or  place,'  was  all  he  said, 
And  I  answered,  I  want  to  bet  it 

That  Sadie  comes  ahead. 
My  name's  joe,  but  he  thought  he  knew  me 

For  he  said  with  half  a  sneer, 


Page 


Si,  I  thought  you  wasn't  coming 

But  I'm  mighty  glad  you're  here. 
Then  he  handed  me  out  a  little  check, 

I  rememher  it  just  as  well, 
'Cause  'twas  like  you  get  for  your  coat  and  hat 

When  you  stop  at  a  big  hotel. 
Mendota  Club,  it  said  at  the  top 

And  beneath  with  a  pencil  blue, 
His  hired  man  had  written 

Citation — Ten  to  Two. 


the 


crowd    is 


"They're    off,    and 
stilled 

As  a  chestnut  flew  to  the  rail, 
And  the  hopes  of  Sadie's  friends  were  chilled 

As  she  was  seen  to  trail  ; 
Past  the  quarter  and  round  the  turn 

The  flying  pacers  come, 
Their  hoofbeats  echoing  on  the  air 

Like  the  roll  of  a  muffled  drum  ; 
Nearer  and  nearer,  step  by  step, 

Was  there  ever  such  a  scene, 
The  black  coat  leading  by  a  length 

The  driver  dressed  in  green  ; 
Grim  and  determined  are  the  men 

As  Sphinx-like  they  sit  and  ride, 
Awaiting  the  finish  they  know  full  well 

Will  be  won  or  lost  by  a  stride  ; 
Through  the  spell-bound  crowd 

Past  the  half  in  three 
Like  spectres  grim  they  stole, 

And  round  the  turn,  and  up  the  stretch 
And  past  the  three-quarter  pole, 


Page     I  iti  t  n  t])  -  o  n  0 


And  on  to  the  turn  where  the  stables  are, 
Where  the  grooms  sit  on  the  rail, 

And  still  the  chestnut  raced  in  front 
With  the  brown  mare  on  her  trail, 

I  turned  away  in  deep  despair 
As  I  thought  of  old  Skinner's  note, 

And  somehow  a  mist  seemed  to  fill  the  air 
And  a  lump  seemed  to  come  in  my  throat. 

But  hark — a  roar  like  the  surging  sea 
Arose  from  the  crowded  stand, 

'Twas  the  sweetest  music  I  ever  heard 
And  I've  listened  to  Sousa's  band; 

Through  the  frantic  crowd  I  caught  a  glimpse 
With  an  eager  anxious  eye, 

Of  a  flash  of  green  and  a  dash  of  gold 
As  Dick  pulled  out  to  try. 

"Say,  Kelly,  you've  seen  a  rabbit  dart 

With  its  ears  flat  on  its  back, 
When  life  hung  in  the  balance 

With  the  hounds  upon  its  track ; 
You've  seen  a  turkey  buzzard 

Seem  to  stand  still  in  the  sky, 
And  then  swoop  down  on  your  chickens 

With  no  trusty  shot  gun  nigh, 
You've  seen  a  graceful  sail  boat 

Helpless  like  with  empty  sail, 
And  you've  seen  it  scudding  homeward 

When  it  felt  the  welcome  gale, 
Well,  I  don't  know  how  it  happened, 

But  I  always  will  declare, 
He  picked  her  up  and  placed  her 

Beside  the  other  mare. 


Page     I  ic  e  n  t  ]>  -  t 


Past  the  flag  man, 

Past  the  draw  gate, 
On  into  the  human  lane 

They  were  racing  as  two  pacers 
Ne'er  will  race  that  track  again, 

Each  driver  with  the  cunning 
That  an  artist  can  command 

Was  working  like  a  demon 
With  a  voice  and  whip  and  hand, 

And  Richard,  leaning  over, 
With  determined  voice  and  clear 

Was  shouting,  Sadie,  Sadie,  Sadie, 
In  her  ear. 

"The  crowd  was  fairly  frantic, 

Every  man  was  on  his  feet  yelling  madly 
Though  no  one  was  sure 

Which  mare  had  won  the  heat, 
But  I  heard  the  judges  whisper 

That  the  hobbled  mare  was  first, 
And  I  suddenly  decided  to  liquiate  my  thirst. 

Jock  didn't  seem  to  be  quite  so  glad 
That  I  came  to  town  that  day, 

But  he  said  as  he  counted  out  the  roll, 
'Welcome  as  the  flowers  in  May;' 

He's  a  mighty  jolly  fellow 
And  I  know  he  meant  it,  too, 

When  he  said,  'Si,  come  tomorrow, 
I'll  save  something  good  for  you. 

'Well,  old  Skinner  got  his  money 

And  perhaps  it  saved  his  life, 
But  I  took  about  three  hundred  home 

And  gave  it  ot  my  wife. 


Page    t  n>  t  n  ty  -  t  h  r  e  t 


I  did  not  intend  to  tell  her 

But  next  day  she  says,  says  she, 
'Joe,  there's  one  very  knotty  problem 

That  you  must  explain  to  me. 
You  have  always  been  respected, 

Have  your  senses  taken  flight, 
Who  is  this   Sadie,  Sadie, 

That  you  talk  about  all  night?' 
She  had  me  in  a  pocket 

And  so  I  sat  right  down 
And  told  her  all  that  happened 

The  day  I  went  to  town. 
And  we  sort  o'  courted  over 

And  decided  then  and  there 
To  raise  another  Sadie 

From  the  old  roan  mare ; 
And  we've  got  her,  she's  a  pippin, 

Just  as  fat  and  smooth  and  round, 
And  I've  broken  her  to  harness 

And  she's  absolutely  sound. 

"But  times  have  changed; 

I  bought  the  land  old  Skinner  had 
And  annexed  another  eighty 

That  I  purchased  from  my  Dad ; 
We  have  got  a  brand  new  auto, 

Just  as  slick  as  slick  can  be, 
But  I  wouldn't  give  that  filly 

For  all  of  them  I  ever  see. 
It's  got  a  clock  upon  it 

All  fixed  up  for  style  and  show 
That  tells  you  just  how  far  you've  been 

And  where  you  want  to  go, 


Page     twehty-foaf 


"  WHERE  THE  BLOSSOMS  DRIFT  IN  MAY" 


There  is  only  one  more  contraption 

They  could  add  to  the  con-sarned  thing, 
That  would  tell  me  how  much  it  was  going  to 
cost 

And  what  it  would  finally  bring. 
I've  worked  a  piece  of  highway, 

Till  it's  smooth  and  flat  and  straight, 
Just  a  half  a  mile  from  the  big  white  elm 

To  the  maple  at  the  gate, 
And,  Kelly,  you  ought  to  see  them  step, 

That  filly  and  that  machine ; 
It  brings  me  a  vision  of  by-gone  days 

And  two  coats  of  black  and  green. 

"The  old  roan  mare  has  left  us 

And  we  tearfully  laid  her  away 
Out  in  the  apple  orchard 

Where  the  blossom's  drift  in  May. 


t  V  -f  i  i)  e 


And  oft  in  the  summer  evenings 

We  stroll  there,  me  and  my  wife, 
And  thank  the  Giver  of  all  good  gifts 

For  the  better  things  of  life. 
Some  people  think  religion 

Is  all  a  sort  o'  fudge, 
But  somehow  it  brings  us  nearer 

To  the  Great  Presiding  Judge. 

"Yes,  Kelly,  I'm  starting  the  filly 

Next  week  at  the  County  Fair, 
My  friends  will  be  in  the  grandstand 

And  I  want  you  to  be  there; 
I  hardly  think  she'll  make  a  break 

But  I  want  to  be  sure  and  win 
With  just  a  little  more  room  for  mine, 

No  more  of  that  rambling  in ; 
So  I  came  for  a  pair  of  Hobbles 

And,  Kelly,  I  implore, 
Be  sure  and  pick  me  out  a  set 

Just  like  Old  Sadie  wore." 


Page     t  V)  e  n  I  a  -  s  i  x 


A  friend  is  a  fellow  who  knows  your  faults, 

Who  sees  all  your  ins  and  outs; 
A  chap  whose  loyalty  never  halts, 

And  who  never  a  moment  doubts ; 
A  pal  who's  with  you  where'er  you  go 

From  the  start  to  the  very  end, 
Who  lends  a  hand  when  you  stub  your  toe — 

That's  what  I  call  a  friend. 


Page    t  tt  e  n  ty  -s  e  oe  n 


"UHLAN"  1:58 

TO  UHLAN 

Oh  Kin<>'  dethroned,  within  whose  placed  eyes 
There  lurks  "The  look  of  Eagles"  as  of  old, 

I  wonder  if  you  do  not  oft  surmise 

The  place  in  human  hearts  you  safely  hold. 

I  wonder  if  you  do  not  look  askance 

On  many  things  that  men  and  nations  do, 

You  who  have  never  missed  a  chance 

To  serve  your  master  just  the  best  you  knew 

I  wonder  if  your  honest  heart  rebels 
At  man's  gross  inhumanity  to  man ; 

I  wonder  if  your  indignation  swells, 

Pray,  answer  me,  ex-monarch,  if  you  can. 


a=-====^ju=— — = 

=^[p^^ 


Were  you  not  piqued  when  o'er  the  Great  Divide 
The  tidings  of  your  rival's  feats  were  known? 

Did  you  not  long  to  measure  stride  for  stride 
Ere  you  resigned  the  glories  of  your  throne? 

A  throne  indeed,  the  sea  you  love 

Will  murmur  melodies  awhile  you  sleep 

And  purple  mountains  far  above 
Like  sentries  tall  their  vigils  keep. 

Your  lines  are  cast  in  pleasant  ways 
And  still  your  eyes  confirm  the  truth, 

You're  longing  for  those  yesterdays 
And  for  an  hour  of  speed  and  youth. 

You  long  for  Proctor's  guiding  hand, 
You  hark   for  Tanner's  pleading  voice, 

You  loved  the  plaudits  of  the  stand, 
Its  tumult  made  your  heart  rejoice. 

But  you  have  nobly  done  your  best, 
Those  flying  feet  have  never  swerved, 

Let  no  regrets  disturb  your  rest, 

For  Youth  must  always  first  be  served. 

Alas  our  reign  is  all  too  brief, 

A  few  short  days  of  strength  and  might, 
For  Time  steals  on  us  like  a  thief, 

And  then — it's  night. 


\ 


Page    twenty~n.ine 


THOSE   OLD    HIGH   WHEELS 

Just  a  quaint,   old-fashioned  sulky, 

Standing  in  a  dusty  mow, 
But  its  form  grotesque  and  bulky 

Charms  my  fancy  even  now, 
And  I  halt  my  explorations 

As  this  antique  rig  I  scan 
To  approve  the  rude  creation 

Of  some  old-time  artisan. 

Timid  pigeons  coo  and  flutter 

As  my  warning  steps  intrude 
And  the  red-head  on  the  gutter 

Drums  a  noisy  interlude; 
Full  the  ample  mow  and  fragrant 

With  the  scent  of  new  mown  hay, 
So  I  find  myself  a  vagrant 

Dreaming  of  a  by-gone  day. 


Page    thirty 


.. 


Musing  there  beneath  the  shingles 

Where  the  sunlight  filters  through, 
How  my  truant  memory  mingles 

With  the  scenes  that  sulky  knew. 
With  the  horses  that  once  drew  it, 

With  the  men  it  served  so  well, 
And  the  list  as  now  I  view  it 

Seems  to  hold  me  in  its  spell. 

There  is  Goldsmith  Maid  and  Rarus, 

And  Maud  S.  and  Billie  Bair, 
And  Splan  and  Orrin  Hickok, 

Was  there  ever  such  a  pair? 
There's  St.  Julian  and  Trinket, 

Palo  Alto  and  Sunol, 
And  a  score  of  others  answer 

As  my  fancy  calls  the  roll. 

Then  comes  Woodruff,  Mace  and  Murphy, 

Household  names  in  by-gone  days, 
Honest  Charlie  Ford  and  Hopeful, 

What  a  loyal  pair  of  grays, 
Dexter  with  his  four  white  stockings, 

Smuggler  with  his  pounds  of  weight, 
And  with  Charlie  Marvin  driving 

Next  comes  jogging  through  the  gate. 

Lucy,  George  M.  Patchen,  Tackey, 

Red  Cloud  drawing  Johnnie  Wade, 
Now  report  to  draw  positions, 

What  a  record  each  one  made. 
Arab,  Maxie  Cobb  and  Phallas, 

Clingstone,  too,  and  Jay  Eye  See 
Are  among  the  many  others 

That  come  scoring  down  to  me. 


' 


P  a.g  e    thirty  -  o'-n  e 


Rowdy  Boy  and  Mattie  Hunter, 

Sleepy  Tom  and  Buffalo  Girl, 
Johnston,  Direct  and  Hal  Pointer, 

Names  that  keep  my  brain  awhirl, 
Tommy  Lynn  and  Patsey  Clinker, 

Silver  Tail  and  Daisy  D. 
Speers,  Longfellow  Whip  and  Williams, 

Billie  Ham  and  Lottie  P. 

Badger  Girl,  Cozette,  Observer, 

I  was  but  a  youngster  then, 
But  I  have  a  fond  remembrance 

Of  old  Big  Soap  and  Lew  Glenn, 
Benson,  Chandler,  Grimes  and  Curry, 

All  have  heard  the  final  call, 
And  McHenry,  cool  and  crafty, 

Doubtless  wizard  of  them  all. 

Gone,  alas,  those  steeds  and  drivers. 

But  I  know  they'll  reconvene 
Up  there  by  the  placid  waters, 

In  the  pastures  evergreen, 
And  I'm  thankful  for  the  vision 

That  is  brought  to  me  so  oft 
By  that  quaint  old  high  wheel  sulky 

Standing  in  the  stable  loft. 


Page    t  h  i  r  I  y  •  t  V  o 


E.  F.  GEERS 

Like  some  gnarled  oak  that  through  the  tempests  lasts 

And  grows  more  sturdy  with  those  trying  blasts 
So  you  have  grown,  undaunted,  unapproachable,  alone. 

Temptation  knocks  unheeded  at  your  door 
And  hurries  on  to  fields  that  promise  more; 

Misfortune  halts  you,  but  no  factor  stays 
The  even  tenor  of  your  winning  ways. 

Rich  in  the  things  that  make  a  man, 
May  you  live  on  like  that  old  oak  apace 

Far  into  and  beyond  the  span 
That  marks  our  cradle  and  our  resting  place. 

Oh,  cunning  hand  and  magic  name, 


rfl 


Page    thirty  -thr  tt 


Oh,  shades  of  old  Hal  Pointer  and  the  rest, 

No  pair  has  ever  yet  been  known  to  fame 
That  stir  the  same  emotions  in  my  breast, 

And  so  when  Spring  time  birds  come  flocking  back 
To  haunts  and  homes  they  loved  in  other  years 

We  come  to  loiter  at  the  trotting  track 
And  worship  at  the  shrine  of  "Massa  Geers." 

May  time  and  tide  that  do  not  wait 
Deal  kindly  with  us  here  below, 

But  may  they  please  just  hesitate, 
''Doggone  it,"  Pop,  we  love  you  so. 


Page     (  h  i  r  I  y  ~f< 


A  FRONT  WHEEL  IS  MISSING 


THAT  DEMOCRAT  WAGON  OF  DAD'S 

I  found  it  today  half  hidden  away 

In  a  tangle  of  brush  and  of  weeds, 
Not  far  from  the  spot  where  the  children  play 

And  the  path  to  the  old  orchard  leads  ; 
And  oh,  what  a  myriad  of  memories  abide 

Of  those  long-ago  lassies  and  lads 
That  gathered  around  and  just  begged  for  a  ride 

In  that  democrat  wagon  of  Dad's. 

A  front  wheel  is  missing,  the  dashboard  is  bent, 

The  birds  have  built  nests  'neath  the  seat  ; 
The  leather  upholstering  is  tattered  and  rent, 

Its  passing  is  almost  complete; 
And  yet  as  I  view  it,  it  lightens  my  load 

And  I'm  back  once  again  as  a  lad 
When  bronzed  and  barefooted   I   trudged   down  the 
road 

For  a  ride  in  that  wagon  with  Dad. 


Page    t  hirtyfi 


No  varnish  adorns  it,  the  sun  and  the  shine 

Have  vanquished  the  paint  it  once  knew; 
An  elm  hovers  o'er  it,  a  friendly  old  vine 

Strives  to  hide  its  defects  from  my  view ; 
But  I  can't  be  denied,  so  I  brush  them  aside 

While  I  think  of  the  fun  that  I've  had 
As  I  climbed  to  his  side  on  that  seat  for  a  ride 

In  that  Democrat  wagon  with  Dad. 

For  years  it  was  given  the  choicest  abode 

Till  an  auto  appeared  on  the  scene, 
And  then  the  old  wagon  was  lost  to  the  road 

Crowded  out  by  a  gaudy  machine; 
The  tool  house  now  claimed  it  and  answered  its  needs 

Till  a  tractor  came  puffing  along, 
And  then  it  was  left  to  repose  in  the  weeds, 

Lulled  to  sleep  by  the  meadow  lark's  song. 


How  oft  in  the  days  that  have  taken  to  flight 

Have  I  pictured  those  scenes  o'er  and  o'er, 
Of  Father  and  Mother  returning  at  night 

And  the  goodies  the  old  wagon  bore ; 
There  were  bushels   of   buckwheat   and   oysters 
things 

That  made  a  boy's  heart  superglad, 
And  so  I  rejoice  that  my  memory  clings 

To  that  democrat  wagon  and  Dad. 


and 


On  Sunday  it  took  us  to  worship  and  prayer 
In  the  white  meeting  house  on  the  hill, 

Forgotten  the  sermons  we  listened  to  there 
But  the  wagon  remains  with  us  still. 


Page     t  h  i  r  I  y  -  8 


THE  WHITE  MEETING  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL 

And  then  in  the  Autumn,  the  season's  work  o'er, 

We  drove  to  the  fair  every  day, 
And  how  I  would  tease  Dad  and  clamor  for  more 

If  we  raced  just  a  bit  on  the  way. 

For  Father  contended  a  man  wasn't  bad 

Just  because  he  loved  horses  a  lot ; 
I've  followed  his  pretext  and  so  from  a  lad 

I  have  worshipped  a  horse  that  could  trot ; 
I've  a  boy  of  my  own  that  can  drive  a  big  car 

But  I've  watched  him  and  know  it  is  true, 
He  don't  get  the  pleasure,  as  fast  as  they  are, 

That  his  Dad  and  his  Grandfather  knew. 


Pq  g  e     t  h  ir  t  v  -4  4V  t  fl 


V 


And  so  as  I  view  it  my  boyhood  returns 

And  a  mist  sort  o'  comes  to  my  eyes  ; 
I'll  frankly  confess  that  my  heart  fairly  yearns 

For  those  far-away  days  that  I  prize, 
The  neighbors,  the  schoolhouse,  the  village  and  all 

For  the  country  I  loved  as  a  lad, 
But  the  happiest  moments  that  I  can  recall 

Were  spent  in  that  wagon  with  Dad. 

We  are  told  that  when  life  with  its  trouble  and  fuss 

Shall  end  and  our  journey  is  o'er, 
A  palid  old  boatman  is  waiting  for  us 

With  a  barque  for  a  far-away  shore, 
Our  finish  is  plain  and  we  can  not  remain, 

But  I'd  welcome  the  change  and  be  glad, 
If  I  could  be  sure  I  would  nestle  secure 

In  that  Democrat  Wagon  with  Dad. 


Page     thirty -elgh 


"A  SILENCE  REIGNS  UPON  THE  HILL- 


I 


The  shades  are  down  across  the  way, 

Unspotted  lies  the  snow  and  still, 
The  giant  oaks  their  vigils  keep, 

A  silence  reigns  upon  the  hill  ; 
We  look  away  across  the  lawn 

Where  merry  parties  once  held  sway, 
But  all  the  house  is  dark  and  lone, 

The  shades  are  down  across  the  way. 

We  miss  the  children's  noisy  play, 

They  do  not  care  the  hill  to  climb 
As  once  they  did  when  they  could  stay 

At  Grandma's  until  supper  time; 
The  wind  seems  sighing  since  they  left, 

The  beagles  have  a  mournful  bey, 
In  fact,  the  whole  bluff  seems  bereft, 

The  shades  are  down  across  the  way. 


" 


Page     I h  i  r  ty - n  i  n  e 


THE  OLD  ELM  AT  ITS  BACK 

THE  SECRETARY  MAN 

Dear  Patron  of  the  "Sport  of  Kings," 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  you 
That  a  real  live  secretary 

Has  a  few  odd  jobs  to  do? 
Did  you  ever  stop  to  ponder 

How  much  time  is  all  his  own 
From  the  day  his  dates  are  published 

Till  his  deficit  is  shown? 
Did  you  ever  chance  to  chide  him 

'Cause  he  overlooked  your  name 
For  a  complimentary  ticket? 

Don't  you  think  he  was  to  blame? 
Did  he  give  your  groom  the  choicest  stall 

There  was  upon  the  track 


Page    forty 


Close  to  the  well  and  paddock 

With  the  old  elm  at  its  back? 
Did  he  have  the  "chamber"  bedded? 

Did  he  have  a  room  for  you 
Just  outside  the  track  enclosure 

That  was  cool  and  fresh  and  new? 
Could  he  tell  the  name  and  breeding 

Of  the  horse  in  every  stall? 
Did  he  know  how  fast  the  pacers 


THE  BOYS  WHO  ROLL  THE   BANDAGE 

Would  go  in  the  free-for-all? 
Did  the  bookies  get  your  money? 

Twas  the  secretary's  fault, 
He  should  have  had  the  judges 

Very  promptly  call  a  halt 
When  your  ticket  wasn't  winning, 

But  of  course  he  didn't  know 
When  you  bet  your  last  two  dollars 

That  your  pacer  couldn't  show. 


Page   f  o  r  i  u  -  o  n  e 


:=«x3eo 


Did  he  sell  box  four  to  Smithy? 

Did  he  sell  box  three  to  Hall? 
He  should  surely  have  known  better 

Why  their  wives  don't  speak  at  all. 
Was  he  right  there  with  the  money 

When  your  trotter's  race  was  o'er? 
Was  his  track  hard  enough  for  the  sound  ones 

And  soft  enough  for  the  sore? 
Was  your  laundry  ticket   settled? 

Did  you  get  an  extra  pass? 
Did  you  win  a  heat  in  'leven 

And  stay  in  the  twenty  class? 
Did  he  charge  your  entrance  money? 

Did  he  have  a  big  boquet 
Waiting  for  you  at  the  station 

On  the  day  you  shipped  away? 
Were  the  winners  always  happy 

And  the  losers  never  sore? 
Did  he  work  full  twenty  hours 

And  more  of  the  twenty-four? 
If  he  did  you've  found  the  fellow 

Who's  entitled  to  the  crown, 
For  he's  picked  up  the  burden 

Where  we  all  have  thrown  it  down, 
And  I  add  my  humble  tribute 

To  that  secretary's  skill, 

He's  the  man  behind  the  cannon, 

He's  the  flour  in  the  mill ; 
So  I  drink  in  silent  homage 

To  the  men  who  boost  the  game, 
To  the  boys  who  roll  the  bandage 

And  the  chap  who  rides  to  fame, 


Page    / o  r  I])- 1  n>  o 


To  the  breeder  and  the  trainer 
And  to  all  the  horseman  clan, 

But  I  drain  my  cup  the  deepest 
To  the  secretary  man. 


Page    forty-three 


A  HAVEN  OF  REST  WHEN  THE  WINTER  WINDS  BLOW 


REFLECTIONS   OF  A   ROVER 

The  old  city  bastile  —  How  plain  it  appears 

As  I  view  it  again  through  the  mist  of  the  years  ; 
Though  rivers  and  mountains  and  plains  intervene 

I  see  it  again  as  on  memory's  screen  ; 
How  many  a  time  in  the  days  that  have  passed 

It  has  sheltered  us  well  from  the  pitiless  blast, 
And  its  old  battered  walls  seemed  a  kingly  abode 

When  its  doors  swung  ajar  for  the  knights  of  the 

road.' 
I  see  them  again,  though  unbidden  I  rove, 

The   fellows   who   camped   'round   the   old   cannon 

stove. 
There  was  Paddy  the  fifer,  whose  merry  old  flute 

Harbored  music  no  artist  would  dare  to  refute  ; 
The  bats  on  the  rafters  and  rats  on  the  floor 

Were  charmed  by  the  strains  of  his  Rory  O'Moore, 


Page    forty  -fo  u  r 


And  when  Paddy's  overture  echoed  away 

A  Thespian  bold  rendered  part  of  a  play ; 
Twas  said  by  his  friends  that  he  promised  in  youth 

To  rival  a  Mansfield,  or  Barrett  or  Booth ; 
There  was  Tommy  the  toper,  and  Rattle  Trap  Jack, 

The  latter  a  title  he  gained  on  the  track  ; 
There  were  men  of  all  nations  and  men  of  all  creeds 

Who  listened  while  others  recounted  their  deeds  ; 
Just  a  care-free  collection  of  innocent  chaps 

With  the  wanderlust  habit  prevailing  perhaps, 
And  a  thirst  unrelentingly  begging  each  morn 

For  the  poison  that  lurks  in  the  heart  of  the  corn. 
No  costly  contraptions  the  old  bastile  knew, 

But  a  haven  of  rest  when  the  Winter  winds  blew ; 
So  I'm  longing  tonight  to  hit  the  back  trail 

And  slumber  again  in  the  old  city  jail ; 
It's  welcome  and  warmth  brought  a  vision  of  home 

And  I  cannot  forget  it  where  ever  I  roam. 
You  may  laugh,  if  you  like,  sir,  but  what  is  the  use 

To  chide  me  for  loving  the  old  calaboose. 


Page 


THE  CHESTNUT  HORSE  AND  JOE 

"Just  a  chestnut  horse,"  the  neighbors  said, 

As  they  saw  him  led  away. 
And  they  marveled  much  at  the  tears  I  shed 

And  the  anguish  I  felt  that  day, 
For  that  chestnut  horse  had  a  place  in  my  heart 

Where  the  angels  I  worship  dwell, 
And  he  seemed  of  my  very  life  a  part, 

So  this  is  the  tale  I  tell. 

Joe  was  ten  to  a  day  when  he  found  the  mare 
With  the  new  born  foal  at  her  side, 

While  with  a  proud  and  zealous  air 

She  watched  the  youngster's  ambling  stride, 


Page    fortu-six 


And  Joe  with  nimble  feet  and  bare 

Dashed  down  the  garden  path  in  leaps 

To  bring  me  tidings  of  my  favorite  mare 
And  ask  me  if  the  colt  was  his  "for  keeps." 


"Oh,  Dad,  it's  a  wonderful  foal,"  he  said, 

"With  eyes  like  the  sky  above, 
And  a  queer  white  mark  in  its  little  head 

Like  the  stars  in  the  flag  we  love. 
You'll  let  me  name  him  now,  of  course. 

Since  you've  given  him  all  to  me, 
I'm  going  to  make  him  a  fighting  horse 

And  call  him  My  Liberty." 

Ah,  little  soldier  with  sun-kissed  hair, 

Your  boyhood  dreams  came  true, 
Those  two  gold  stars  in  the  window  there 

Mean  the  chestnut  horse  and  you. 
I  helped  Joe  break  him  to  drive  and  ride 

And  they  won  at  the  County  Show, 
While  all  the  neighbors  far  and  wide 

Knew  the  chestnut  horse  and  Joe. 

The  happy  years  that  came  between 

Brought  never  a  thought  of  fate 
Till  the  lad  at  last  had  reached  eighteen 

And  the  horse  was  counted  eight; 
And  then  the  call  to  the  colors  came 

And  my  boy  was  first  to  go, 
But  the  chestnut  horse  never  seemed  the  same 

After  saying  good-bye  to  Joe. 


Pege   fortv-iefen 


A  neighbor's  boy  was  mustered  in, 

He  had  been  Joe's  dearest  chum; 
They  promised  to  stick  through  thick  and  thin 

And  to  write  if  harm  should  come. 
I  hitched  the  chestnut  up  alone 

And  took  the  boys  to  the  train, 
Somehow  the  skies  had  darker  grown, 

And  from  the  clouds  the  tear  drops  came. 
While  the  precious  moments  flew  away 

Joe  whispered  half  in  fun, 
"Send  Liberty  over  to  me  some  day 

To  help  me  catch  a  Hun. 


"You  know  I'll  love  him  where'er  I  am, 

And  the  world  is  not  so  wide; 
Just  sell  him  some  day  to  Uncle  Sam 

And  we'll  meet  on  the  other  side." 
The  train  passed  on  with  its  clanging  bell, 

And  the  light  of  my  life  went  too; 
It  seemed,  alas,  like  some  awful  knell 

As  it  disappeared  from  view. 

The  season  wearily  wore  away 

With  its  hopes  and  doubts  and  fears, 
Joe's  face  before  me  day  by  day 

And  his  words  in  my  aching  ears. 
So  I  sold  the  horse  of  my  joy  and  pride 

To  a  captain  I  met  by  chance, 
To  do  his  bit  on  the  "Other  Side" 

With  the  khaki  boys  in  France. 


Page,    forty-eight 


Ah,  little  wonder  the  world  stood  still 

And  my  tears  in  abundance  fell 
As  the  chestnut  turned  at  the  top  of  the  hill 

And  whinnied  a  last  farewell. 
The  letters  that  came  were  full  of  cheer 

And  one  held  a  poppy  bloom, 
The  end  of  the  war  seemed  very  near 

And  the  boys  would  be  with  us  soon. 

The  Yanks  were  hot  on  the  Boche's  track, 
They  were  beating  the  hated  Huns ; 

And  Pershing  was  pushing  them  steadily  back 
In  spite  of  their  gas  and  guns ; 

And  then — a  letter  from  Joe's  best  friend, 
"Sir,  I  promised  to  let  you  know, 

They  fought  together  to  the  end, 
The  chestnut  horse  and  Joe." 

"Don't  grieve,"  it  said,  "for  the  cause  is  won. 
And  they  really  have  not  died, 

Their  glorious  lives  have  just  begun—- 
They have  met  on  the  Other  Side." 

Just  a  chestnut  horse  and  a  boy  so  fair, 

Two  forms  that  were  stark  and  cold, 
But  the  searchers  paused  in  silent  prayer 

For  the  stars  that  had  turned  to  gold. 
And  so  each  year  as  the  Spring  comes  'round, 

I  shall  think  of  the  poppies  that  blow 
And  nod  their  heads  o'er  the  grassy  mound 

Of  the  Chestnut  Horse  and  Joe. 


Page    J  orty -ni  nt 


] 


\\ 


A  HAND  SHAKE  AND  HOW  DO  YOU  DO 


THE    OLD-TIME    FAIR 

Oh  Autumn,  bring  me  back  the  days 

I  dreamed  the  dreams  of  a  boy, 
Before  I  had  learned  the  world  and  its  ways 

And  life  was  one  round  of  joy; 
Bring  me  a  vision  of  old-time  friends, 

A  hand  shake  and  How-do-ye-do, 
One  hour  now  could  make  amends 

For  the  pain  of  a  whole  life  through; 
Bring  me  those  moments  free  from  care 

And  the  patter  of  feet  at  the  score; 
Bring  me  one  day  of  the  old-time  fair, 

I  will  never  ask  for  more; 


Bring  me  a  time  from  the  old-time  band, 

A  glimpse  of  the  old-time  course, 
Bring  the  applause  of  the  crowded  stand 

As  it  cheers  for  the  winning  horse ; 
Bring  me  the  chicken  dinners  rare, 

Bring  all  of  these,  I  say; 
Revive,  O  Autumn,  your  old-time  fair, 

And  bring  me  one  yesterday. 


Page    fijty.bnt 


CHARLES  E.  DEAN 

I  would  not  count  that  he  alone 

Has  won  profound  success 
Because  a  monumental  stone 

Proclaims  his  mightiness ; 
I  would  not  call  that  fellow  great 

Because  his  lands  are  wide 
And  potentates  from  every  state 

Come  flocking  to  his  side ; 
Though  bonds  may  fill  his  ample  vaults 

And  wealth  be  everywhere 
I  could  not  overlook  his  faults 

If  he  had  been  unfair. 


Page    Jifty-ireo 


But  if  he  builds  a  little  cot 

With  roses  here  and  there, 
If  children  come  to  bless  his  lot 

With  joy  beyond  compare, 
If  pets  come  trooping  to  his  call, 

If,  by  his  ways  serene, 
He  leads  a  pacer  from  her  stall 

And  makes  of  her  a  queen ; 
If  he  has  brought  to  this  old  sphere 

A  wealth  of  pleasure,  I'll  confess 
He's  learned  the  art  of  living  here 

And  earned  his  title  to  success. 
Then  would  I  call  him  truly  great 

For  surely  he  has  more  than  wealth 
Whose  friends  from  sea  to  sea  await 

The  anxious  tidings  of  his  health, 
For  lands  and  bonds  and  wealth  take  wings 

But  honest  hands  and  cheery  smile 
We  find  are  the  essential  things 

That  go  to  make  this  life  worth  while. 


Page    ft/lu-lhrle 


(A  true  story  in  verse  with  apologies.) 


Listen,  my  fellows,  and  you  shall  get 
A  tale  of  the  ride  of  Splint  Barnett. 

'Twas  the  tenth  of  October  in  Nineteen  'leven 
And  few  of  us  all  this  side  of  Heaven 

Will  witness  a  show  like  the  one  we  saw 

Take  place  on  the  banks  of  the  raging  Kaw. 

The  American  Royal  show  was  on 

And  from  far  and  near  the  fans  had  come 
To  see  Missouri,  proud  and  great, 

Win  blues  from  every  other  state, 
And  all  the  poultry  and  sheep  and  swine, 

The  mule  maligned  and  the  loving  kine 
Had  garnered  the  honor  and  glory  too 

That  came  from  winning  the  Royal  blue. 
The  shades  of  night  closed  o'er  the  scene 

And  found  all  tranquil  and  serene ; 
But  hark — the  bugle  calls,  and  lo, 

The  gate  swings  wide  for  the  night  horse  show. 

The  building  from  door  to  dome  is  filled 

But  the  surging  crowd  at  last  is  stilled 
And  all  the  boxes  seem  to  be 

So  filled  with  the  flower  of  chivalry 
That  old-time  Romans  in  their  might 

Would  have  envied  the  Royal  on  this  night. 
A  gaited  class  is  in  the  ring, 

All  trying  for  that  subtle  thing  called  fame 


Page    Jifty-f&ut 


To  which  we  all  aspire, 

Who  ever  rise  from  out  the  mire. 
And  well  they  might  be  proud  to  win, 

For  every  rider  of  renown 
From  Old  Kentucky's  rippling  rills 

To  Old  Missouri's  Ozark  hills 
Has  gathered  there  in  K.  C.  town. 

The  cheers  for  each  are  long  and  loud 
As  they  dash  in  splendor  before  the  crowd, 

But  all  are  lost  in  a  mighty  roar 
As  a  chestnut  comes  racking  through  the  door, 

And  sitting  astride  his  famous  pet 
Is  the  sphinx-like  form  of  "Splint"  Barnett. 

They  walked,  and  walked  they  all  so  fine 

One  scarcely  could  tell  the  best  in  line ; 
They  trotted,  and  the  Barnett  mount 

Just  seemed  to  put  them  all  to  rout ; 
They  racked,  and  how  "Splint's"  horse  could  whiz ! 

It  looked  as  though  the  blue  was  his ; 
They  cantered,  and  all  but  Barnett's  steed 

Responded  promptly  on  either  lead. 
Line  up,  line  up,  and  they  did  their  best 

To  pose  each  horse  for  the  final  test. 
"What  horse  is  this  with  rack  so  fine," 

Asked  the  judge  of  "Splint"  as  they  wheeled  in 

line, 
"Why,  why,"  he  answered  in  accents  bold, 

"He's  just  a  baby,  a  four-year-old. 
Fact  is,  Mr.  Judge,  he's  half-past  three, 

I  knows,  'cause  they  raised  him  close  to  me. 
Yes,  Mr.  Judge,  he's  oil  in  the  can, 

He's  named  for  a  famous  railroad  man; 


Page 


He's  not  in  a  class  with  those  other  bones, 

This  horse,  Mr.  Judge,  is  Casey  Jones." 
But  "Splint"  felt  shaky  in  the  knees 

When  the  judge  said,  "Let  him  canter,  please." 
"Why,  why,  Mr.  Judge,  he  cantered  before, 

You  surely  don't  need  to  see  him  more; 
I  lets  him  canter  most  every  day, 

You  must  have  been  looking  the  other  way." 
"Well,  well,"  said  the  judge,  "why  all  this  fuss, 

He's  got  to  canter  here,  for  us ; 
And  if  he  don't,  you  know  it's  true 

He  hasn't  a  chance  to  win  the  blue." 

So  "Splint"  leaned  over  the  chestnut's  neck 

And  promised  him  many  a  half  a  peck ; 
He  coaxed  and  threatened  and  whipped  and  spurred 

But  Casey  racked  on  like  a  flying  bird, 
And  when  the  judges  waved  him  in 

Our  hero  murmured  with  some  chagrin, 
"Casey  Jones,  just  half-past  three, 

You've  had  your  last  square  meal  with  me; 
No  pesterin'  houn'  dog  like  you  are 

Can  ever  ride  in  my  old  freight  car." 
And  John  Hook  whispered  on  his  right, 

"  'Splint,'  his  memory's  mighty  bad  tonight." 
And  Cohen  and  Moores  and  Woods  and  Bass 

Still  chide  him  gently  as  they  pass. 

And  so  the  name  of  Casey  Jones 

Has  been  saved  from  the  list  of  the  world's  un- 
knowns, 
And  horsemen  each  year  as  the  equines  show 

Will  recount  his  deeds  in  the  twilight's  glow, 
And  dream  of  the  past  as  the  story  they  tell 

Of  a  horse  who  did  all  but  canter  well. 


Pag 


BACK  HOME 

Back  Home!     Ah,  wondrous  words  are  those 

That  every  weary  wanderer  knows, 
For  cast  about  where'er  we  may 

We  plan  to  go  back  home  some  day ; 
Across  the  miles  that  intervene 

The  prairies  seem  a  bit  more  green, 
The  skies  still  seem  a  bit  more  blue 

And  old-time  friends  a  bit  more  true 
Back  Home. 

Back  home  a  chill  is  in  the  air, 

But  surely  hearts  are  warmer  there; 
The  flowers  that  come  where  snowdrifts  lie 

Will  be  the  sweeter  bye-and-bye ; 
The  morn  may  be  a  trifle  gray 

But  breezes  blow  the  clouds  away, 
And  sunshine  will  come  smiling  through 

As  if  to  help  to  welcome  you 
Back  Home. 


Page    //  // y  -seven 


Back  home  I  hope  the  neighbors  say 

They  miss  me  since  I've  been  away; 
There's  many  that  can  take  my  place 

And  fill  it  with  a  kindlier  grace ; 
There's  many  that  can  do  my  tasks, 

And  yet  I  hope  somebody  asks 
Of  someone  that  they  chance  to  see 

Just  when  they  are  expecting  me 
Back  Home. 

Back  Home — but  one  must  go  away 

To  grasp  the  thoughts  those  words  convey, 
For  when  you  wander  'round  the  land 

You  long  to  grasp  an  old  friend's  hand; 
You  long  to  see  that  old-time  smile, 
Awaiting  for  him  all  the  while, 
To  say,  in  that  familiar  voice, 

"Old  Pal,  your  friends  will  all  rejoice 
That  you're  Back  Home." 


Pa 


ge 


REVERIES 
(In    California) 

The  papers  say 

Far  across  the  Great  Divide, 
And  I  feel  I  should  be  going 

Back  to  take  one  more  sleigh  ride; 
Sun  and  flowers  all  together 

I'll  agree  are  mighty  line, 
But  I  miss  the  Winter  weather 

That  belongs  to  Christmas  time. 

There  seems  a  bit  of  friction 

Twixt  this  date  and  nature's  laws, 
And  it's  difficult  to  picture 

Summer  things  with  Santa  Claus ; 
I  opine  it's  more  in  keeping 

When  he  comes  the  same  old  way, 
With  his  bells  and  antlered  reindeer 

And  the  same  old  battered  sleigh. 

Of  course  they  try  to  tell  us 

Santa  has  a  limousine, 
But  'twould  spoil  my  Merry  Christmas 

If  it  smelled  of  gasoline; 
And  when  his  style  is  altered 

It  will  multiply  my  joys 
To  see  a  pair  of  trotters 

Distributing  the  toys. 


There  was  something  sort  o'  bracing 

In  the  days  I  used  to  know, 
And  it  kept  your  blood  a-racing 

When  'twas  twenty-six  below ; 
It  was  then  we  banked  the  stable 

And  thawed  out  the  kitchen  pump 
While  a  thousand  other  duties 

Kept  us  always  on  the  jump. 


I  can  picture  now  the  kitchen 

Where  my  Mother  baked  the  cakes, 
And  stuffed  the  bags  with  sausage 

Like  no  city  butcher  makes, 
And  when  Dad  came  to  breakfast 

He  would  slap  his  hands  and  say, 
"Well,  it  snowed  a  good  ten  inches, 

We  will  use  the  bobs  today." 


Page    sixty 


We  would  fill  the  box  up  deeply 

With  a  wealth  of  golden  straw ; 
A  modern  carriage  heater 

Was  a  thing  we  never  saw ; 
But  a  pair  of  downy  blankets 

And  a  "buffalo"  or  two 
Afforded  more  real  comfort 

Than  an  auto  ever  knew. 


Sometimes  when  the  winds  were  blowing 

And  the  cold  was  most  intense, 
It  just  kept  on  a-snowing 

Till  'twas  higher  than  the  fence; 
We'd  cross  the  fields  and  shovel 

Until  we  reached  the  town, 
But  oh,  I  loved  the  Winter 

When  we  got  the  bobsleds  down. 

Strange  they  always  took  me  shopping 

Until  Christmas  time  was  near, 
Then  they  held  wierd  consultations 

Meant  for  no  small  boy  to  hear, 
And  I  noticed  one  large  closet 

Where  I  always  played  before 
Was  kept  securely  fastened 

And  no  key  was  in  the  door. 

And  then  on  Christmas  evening, 
When  the  church  was  all  aglow, 

And  a  million  tiny  diamonds 
Seemed  to  sparkle  in  the  snow, 


Page    si  x  /p  -o  nt 


All  the  mystery  was  ended, 
For  the  gifts  upon  the  tree 

Were  the  contents  of  that  closet 
That  the  bobsled  brought  to  me. 

Dear  old  bobsled,  staunch  and  sturdy, 

Helpmeet  of  the  pioneers, 
Memory  like  a  sacred  halo 

Hovers  o'er  you  through  the  years ; 
Some  day  when  the  snow  is  falling 

Thick  on  village  church  and  store, 
Hope  I  hear  some  boy's  dad  calling, 

"Get  the  bobsleds  down"  once  more. 


Page    sixty-two 


\ 


WHEN   SHE   WAS    HERE 

When  she  was  here,  the  one  I  loved  and  lost, 
Joy  reigned  supreme,  I  counted  not  the  cost ; 
The  happy  years  that  sped  away 
Were  as  but  weeks, 
The  weeks  as  but  a  day. 
The  house  that  once  her  presence  filled 
Re-echoes  not  the  voice  that's  stilled ; 
Her  sacred  room  when  I  intrude 
But  greets  me  with  its  solitude; 
I  worship  for  her  own  dear  sake 
The  homey  things  she  used  to  make 
When  she  was  here. 

When  she  was  here  no  favor  I  could  ask 
Would  seem  to  her  in  any  way  a  task ; 
A  word,  a  smile,  a  fond  caress 
Would  prompt  me  to  a  new  success ; 
The  flowers  that  she  loved  and  reared 
Have  for  the  moment  disappeared 
But  to  return  each  Spring  to  grace 
The  verdure  of  her  resting  place; 
The  birds  will  nest  where  oft  before 
She  watched  them  from  the  open  door, 
While  half  expectant  in  his  stall 
A  trotter  listens  for  her  call, 
And  pets  still  wistfully  await 
The  step  they  welcomed  at  the  gate 
When  she  was  here. 


-4 
v/ 

! 


icn  she  was  here  the  magic  of  her  hand 
Was  something  I  could  never  understand. 
The  touch  that  soothed  my  aching  brow 
I'll  feel  no  more,  and  yet  somehow 
There  shines  about  me  all  the  while 
The  radiance  of  that  loved  one's  smile. 
I  can  not  see  her  but  I  feel 
Her  queenly  presence  as  I  kneel 
And  thank  the  gracious  Lord  divine 
For  that  dear  helpmate  that  was  mine ; 
And  so  with  His  aid  I  will  be 
The  man  that  she  would  make  of  me 
If  she  were  here. 


Page    sixty-four 


THE    ROAD    TO    EVERYWHERE 

Oh  little  brown  road  that  winds  away 

And  is  lost  to  sight  in  the  twilight  gray, 

Just  where  would  you  guide  my  steps  and  why, 

If  I  your  dusty  trail  should  try? 

If  I  should  impose  my  trust  in  you 

Would  you  take  me  to  haunts  that  my  childhood  knew 

Or  would  you  guide  me  safe  and  well 

To  that  distant  land  where  the  loved  ones  dwell? 

Pray,  tell  me  more  of  your  route  and  fare, 

Oh  little  brown  road  to  everywhere. 

Oh  little  brown  road  would  you  guide  my  feet 

To  the  land  where  the  sky  and  the  mountains  meet, 

Or  would  you  bring  me  safe  and  fast 

To  the  fields  of  grain  and  the  prairies  vast ; 

Perhaps  your  path  leads  to  the  shore 

Where  your  trail  is  lost  in  the  billow's  roar, 

But  whether  it's  ocean  or  mountain  or  plain, 

I  beg  you  to  take  me  home  again, 

For  all  of  the  wealth  of  the  world  is  there, 

Oh  little  brown  road  to  everywhere. 


Page    sixty-five 


1     { 


THE    PICTURES   ON   THE   WALL 


I've  a  sacred  little  sanctum 

In  a  room  that's  all  unkept ; 
There  is  dust  upon  the  mantle 

And  the  floor  is  quite  unswept, 
But  I  lock  myself  at  evening 

In  its  solitude  and  hide 
Where  the  walls  are  hung  with  pictures 

That  to  me  are  sanctified. 

There  I  lose  the  cares  that  cluster 

'Round  the  problems  of  the  day, 
As  I  tilt  my  chair  to  visit 

With  the  friends  so  far  away ; 
And  they  seem  to  smile  and  beckon 

As  I  greet  them  once  again 
For  a  reminiscent  hour 

In  the  silence  of  my  den. 

Saddles  hang  in  yonder  corner, 

Boots  are  standing  by  the  door, 
Over  there  a  cap  and  jacket 

That  I  don't  use  any  more; 
Cups  and  trophies  on  the  table, 

Whips  and  ribbons,  bits  and  shoes, 
And  a  funny  old-time  muzzle 

That  the  trainer  now  taboos. 


Page    si  x I v  -s 


Page     i  i  x  { u  -  S  e  ii  f:  ft 


There's  a  host  of  old-time  faces 

Beaming  over  famous  steeds, 
While  the  ever  ready  Year  Book 

Tells  the  story  of  their  deeds ; 
But  tonight  a  dozen  new  ones 

Greet  me  when  my  work  is  done, 
Tis  the  Calendar  of  Champions 

For  Nineteen  Twenty-one. 

Peter  Manning,  King  of  Trotters, 

Monarch  of  the  tribe  alone, 
I  can  almost  hear  the  footsteps 

That  have  borne  you  to  the  throne ; 
But  I  turn  the  pages  over 

And  I  wonder  if  you'll  reign 
When  another  year  is  ended 

And  my  pictures  come  again. 


How  do  ordinary  mortals 

Look  to  you  from  up  above, 
Fleet,  determined,  flying  trotter, 

Product  of  the  state  I  love. 
Fame  is  all  too  transitory 

As  is  glory  and  renown, 
Be  ye  watchful  else  your  master 

Guides  another  to  the  crown. 


Then  a  striking  picture  greets  me 
As  I  turn  the  pages  o'er 

Of  another  Murphy  trotter 
That  is  knocking  at  the  door; 


Page    3  i  x  ty  -  e  i  g  h  I 


Page     i  I  x  tu  -  n  I  fi  e 


He  stands  at  marked  attention 
And  the  thing  at  which  he  stares 

Away  off  in  the  distance 

Is  the  crown  that  Manning  wears. 


There  is  not  a  man  among  us 

If  we'd  all  admit  the  truth, 
But  would  turn  the  clock's  hands  backward 

To  the  joyous  days  of  youth  ; 
Silently  we  pass  the  milestones 

And  although  we  squirm  and  writhe 
We  can't  escape  the  notice 

Of  the  "Old  Man  with  the  Scythe." 


Thus  I  marvel,  gentle  reader, 

As  I  turn  another  page 
To  Ed  Allen  and  his  pacer 

Bettered  like  the  wine  by  age. 
Ponce  de  Leon's  famous  fountain 

With  its  praises  widely  sung 
Cannot  equal  Indiana 

When  it  comes  to  keeping  young. 

I  would  camp  in  Cambridge  City 

If  the  Scythe  Man  would  agree 
To  pass  me  by  unnoticed 

Just  as  he  has  Single  G. 
Yes,  I'd  take  my  den  and  pictures 

To  that  charming  Hoosier  spot 
If  old  age  would  overlook  me 

Like  the  Horse  that  time  forgot. 


Page    seventy 


Then  I  spend  a  happy  hour 
With  McDonald,  Cox  and  Ray, 

Say  Hello  to  Sandy  Taylor, 
Hear  what  Richard  has  to  say ; 

Have  a  chat  with  old  friend  Erwin, 
Look  at  Chase  Dean's  flying  steed 

And  I  find  another  evening- 
Has  passed  pleasantly  indeed. 

All  the  family  have  retired, 

On  the  hearth  the  embers  glow, 
As  I  sit  alone  and  visit 

With  the  "Boys"  I  used  to  know ; 
And  I  find  unbounded  comfort 

When  the  dusk  of  evening  falls, 
Just  to  watch  the  friends  and  horses 

In  the  pictures  on  the  walls. 


Page    seven!])- 


WHERE  THEY  STEP  TO  BEAT  THE  BAND 


HOW  THE  DOCTOR 


Have  you  ever  heard  the  story 
Of  the  man  who  lost  but  won? 

Well,  listen,  fellow  horsemen, 
And  I'll  tell  vou  how  'twas  done. 


Back  there  in  the  prairie  country 

Where  the  corn  grows  thick  and  tall, 
And  where  nearly  every  village 

Has  a  county  fair  each  Fall, 
There's  a  nifty  little  race  track 

Where  they  step  to  beat  the  band, 
And  a  judge  who  knows  his  business 

Issues  orders  from  the  stand. 


Pag 


Every  year  the  horsey  fellows 

From  the  city  by  the  lake, 
Enter  for  a  short  vacation 

And  their  business  cares  forsake ; 
One,  a  care-free,  jolly  dentist 

Always  makes  the  little  town, 
Golden  Boy  he  calls  his  pacer, 

And  his  name  is  Doctor  Brown. 


Now  among'  the  other  drivers 

Was  a  chap  that  we'll  call  Black, 
Though  the  name  was  very  different 

That  they  called  him  on  the  track ; 
And  he  also  had  a  pacer, 

Quite  a  fast  one,  rumor  ran, 
And  below  the  Doctor's  entry 

Was  Black's  filly,  Mary  Ann. 

Wednesday  brought  a  crowd  tremendous, 

Hosts  of  every  creed  and  kind, 
Who  intently  viewed  the  pumpkins 

With  the  races  most  in  mind. 
Seven  pacers  faced  the  starter 

In  the  slow  class  of  the  day, 
All  were  on  their  good  behavior 

And  were  quickly  on  their  wray. 

It  was  everybody's  contest 

Till  they  reached  the  distance  stand 
Then  Black  tapped  the  flying  filly 

And  she  quickly  took  command; 


Page    seventy-three 


Doctor  Brown  was  riding  easy, 
Didn't  seem  to  care  a  whit, 

Golden  Boy  had  finished  second 
And  was  plainly  "on  the  bit." 


Second  heat  and  every  starter 

Finished  in  the  self-same  place, 
Some  declared  it  good  as  over, 

Mary  Ann  would  win  the  race. 
Then  a  dark  horse  called  The  Joker 

Beat  them  in  a  furious  drive, 
Doctor  Brown  still  "buggy  riding" 

While  Black's  mare  was  number  five. 

Fourth  heat,  and  the  Doctor's  entry 

Quickly  grabbed  the  inner  rail, 
Black,  content  to  take  it  easy, 

Coaxed  his  little  mare  to  trail ; 
Then  the  fifth  and  at  its  finish 

Golden  Boy  had  won  two  heats, 
And  the  crowd  now  all  excited 

Stretched  and  settled  in  their  seats. 


Brown  and  Black  who  knew  the  rule-book 

Thought  no  purse  could  compensate 
For  the  mark  they'd  get  by  winning 

So  they  planned  "on  being  late." 
They  alone  came  out  to  finish 

And  it  readily  was  seen 
That  each  driver  had  decided 

That  he'd  keep  his  pacer  "green." 


Page    s  c  i>  c  n  t  ]>  -  fo  u  r 


Just  three  times  they  scored  demurely 

In  a  mild,  half-hearted  way; 
When  the  judge  addressed  the  drivers, 

This  is  what  he  had  to  say : 
Mr.  Black,  you  are  a  fellow 

That  I  thought  was  on  the  square, 
I'm  not  pleased,  I  can  assure  you, 

With  the  way  you  drive  your  mare ; 
Now  you  take  the  Doctor's  gelding 

And  I  warn  you,  Mr.  Black, 
It  will  be  your  last  appearance 

If  you  ever  once  look  back. 

Doctor  Brown,  the  judge  continued, 

You  for  years  have  graced  this  course, 
And  no  one  could  quite  convince  me 

That  you'd  really  pull  a  horse; 
Yet  you  seem  to  fear  the  record 

And  I've  hit  upon  a  plan 

That  perhaps  will  save  your  bacon, 

You  will  drive  Black's  Mary  Ann ; 
Now  you  land  her  here  a  winner 

Or  your  patrons  by  the  lake 
Will  find  you  in  your  office 

When  their  teeth  begin  to  ache. 

"Do  you  think  he  really  means  it," 
And  Brown's  face  was  ashy  white 

As  he  whispered  to  the  Doctor 
Who  was  turning  on  the  right, 

And  the  Doctor  answered,  "Does  he? 
Say,  I've  seen  that  judge  before, 


Page 


I'm  not  taking  any  chances, 

He'll  do  all  he  said  and  more." 

Neck  and  neck  they  reached  the  quarter, 

Whips  were  popping  thick  and  fast, 
On  into  the  stretch  they  struggled, 

Just  a  question  which  could  last, 
Past  the  half  they  still  were  pacing 

Like  two  demons  hitched  to  pole, 
While  the  drivers'  frantic  efforts 

Proved  each  hoped  to  win  the  goal. 
Side  by  side  the  pacers  staggered, 

Horse  by  horse  and  man  by  man, 
But  the  Doctor  won  by  inches 

With  the  filly  Mary  Ann. 

So  the  chaps  that  paid  their  money 

For  admission  at  the  gate, 
All  agreed  it  was  a  corker, 

That  the  race  was  simply  great ; 
Black's  bay  mare  had  won  the  battle, 

Golden  Boy  had  done  his  best, 
And  a  sort  of  satisfaction 

Hovered  'neath  each  driver's  vest. 

No  reward  is  so  enduring 

As  the  sense  of  duty  done, 
It  eclipses  all  the  records 

And  the  money  that  you've  won ; 
Doctor  Brown  still  races  horses 

But  he  wins  when  e'er  he  can, 
For  he  don't  forget  the  lesson 

That  he  learned  with  Marv  Ann. 


Page    i  e\>  c  n  t  y  .  s  1  x 


Down  the  street  the  judge  still  muses 

In  his  spacious  dry-goods  store, 
Where  he  issues  daily  orders 

To  a  dozen  clerks  or  more; 
And  he  still  soliloquizes 

That  the  rules  are  not  too  dense 
To  be  strictly  comprehended 

1  f  they're  mixed  with  common  sense. 


There's  a  moral  to  the  story, 

If  you'd  keep  the  horse  game  square, 

Drive  your  trotter  or  your  pacer 
As  the  Doctor  drove  Black's  mare. 


Page 


COUNTRY  STORE 


Plainly  mirrored  in   my   memory 

Are  the  scenes  my  boyhood  knew, 
And  I  brush  away  the  teardrops 

Just  to  get  a  better  view 
Of  the  churchyard  and  the  schoolhouse 

Which  I  picture  o'er  and  o'er, 
But  I  cherish  most  the  glimpses 

Of  that  old-time  country  store. 

There  it  was  we  used  to  gather 

When  the  chores  were  done  at  night, 

Every  topic  from  the  weather 
To  the  war  was  settled  right, 


And  the  leaders  of  the  nation 
For  a  hundred  years  or  more 

Could  have  gained  some  information 
At  that  old-time  country  store. 

On  the  left  side  were  the  groceries 

And  soap  and  tinware  bright. 
While  the  calicoes  and  ginghams 

Were  piled  up  on  the  right ; 
In  the  back  the  syrup  barrels 

And  the  apple  cider  kegs 
Were  flanked  with  jars  of  butter 

And  baskets  filled  with  eggs. 

Uncle  Sam  had  graced  the  structure 

With  his  presence,  so  to  speak, 
And  we  used  to  mail  a  letter 

Or  receive  one  every  week ; 
But  the  evenings  when  the  fellers 

Wras  silent  like  and  dumb, 
Was  when  the  mail  man  whispered, 

"Boys,  the  trottin'  paper's  come." 

Oh  the  thrills  that  went  a-kiting 

Up  my  spine  and  down  my  back 
As  I  listened  to  the  tidings 

Of  the  doings  on  the  track, 
Just  how  Nancy  Hanks  had  triumphed, 

How  the  "Pointer  Hoss"  had  won, 
Held  us  all  in  wrapt  attention 

When  the  trottin'  papers  come. 


• 


Page    seoeniv-nine 


How  Axtel  had  broke  the  record 

And  how  Allerton  had  raced, 
Of  the  miles  that  John  R.  Gentry, 

Robert  J.  and  Patchen  Paced, 
National  issues  were  forgotten 

When  young  Online  paced  in  four 
And  we  read  the  trottin'  papers 

In  the  old-time  country  store. 

Little  wonder  that  I'm  yearning 

Though  I  roam  in  distant  lands, 
For  I  find  my  fancies  turning 

Back  to  where  the  old  store  stands; 
Once  again  I  tie  my  chestnut 

To  the  gnawed  and  whittled  rail, 
Once  again  I  ask  the  postman, 

Please  to  bring  me  out  my  mail. 

Once  again  I  greet  my  schoolmates, 

Once  again  I  grope  my  way 
Up  the  creaking  wooden  stairway 

Where  the  old  band  used  to  play ; 
All  is  quiet  like  and  silent 

And  I  lift  the  laggard  latch 
Just  to  catch  a  strain  of  music 

That  no  modern  band  can  match. 


Ah,  the  old  days  all  have  vanished, 
I  would  be  a  stranger  there, 

I  would  find  an  automobile 

Standing  where  I  tied  my  mare, 


Page    eighlu 


And  I'd  find  the  old  store  vacant 
And  the  band  dispersed  and  gone, 

Leaving  like  the  birds  of  Summer, 
Just  a  memory  of  their  song. 

Now  I  read  about  the  racers 

In  a  most  obtrusive  way, 
How  the  pacers  beat  two  minutes 

Almost  any  Autumn  day, 
But  I'd  give  my  earthly  holdings 

Just  to  live  those  years  once  more 
When  we  read  the  trottin'  papers 

In  that  quaint  old  country  store. 


Page     t  i  g  h  ty  -o  n  e 


BUD  DOBLE 

REWARD 

When  a  trotter  is  nearing  the  end  of  a  race 

And  struggles  along  in  the  lead, 
When  his  driver  endeavors  to  quicken  his  pace 

To  win  from  some  threatening  steed, 
I  am  sure  there  is  nothing  that  prompts  him  to  try 

One  last  final  effort  to  land 
And  capture  the  heat  from  the  one  rushing  by 

Like  the  frenzied  applause  from  the  stand. 


Page     e  i  g  h  t  u  - 


When  an  actor  has  cleverly  mastered  his  lines 

Though  the  play  may  be  weary  and  long, 
The  curtain  is  lifted  a  number  of  times 

To  appease  the  demands  of  the  throng; 
I  am  certain  that  when  he  at  last  ventures  out 

To  make  a  short  speech  and  appears 
The  greatest  reward  that  is  his,  beyond  doubt, 

Is  the  ringing  applause  in  his  ears. 

When  a  fellow  has  journeyed    o'er    life's    rugged 
track 

Full  eighty  long  laps  to  success, 
There  are  few  who  can  say  as  they  proudly  look 
back 

That  they've  played  the  game  fair,  I'll  confess. 
For  life's  greatest  winning  is  not  in  the  gold 

Or  the  pleasures  that  riches  ensnare, 
But  the  sweetest  reward,  when  the  story  is  told, 

Comes  from  knowing  we  played  on  the  square. 

I  have  just  such  a  friend  that  I  point  to  with  pride, 

Who  has  toiled  bravely  on  toward  the  goal, 
He  never  has  carried  another  man  wide 

Or  crowded  the  chap  at  the  pole; 
So  here's  my  reward  in  a  toast  to  his  health, 

Till  the  stars  in  the  heavens  grow  dim, 
The  world  needs  not  money  to  count  as  its  wealth 

But  a  million  more  fellows  like  him. 


Page     eighty-three 


McMAHON'S    BOY 

Said  "Zeekel"  Smith  to  Ezra  Moore 

As  they  whittled  away  at  the  village  store, 

"I  see  that  McMahon  boy  is  back 

That  made  a  name  upon  the  track 

A-drivin'  hosses  fast  and  slow ; 

They  say  he's  made  a  lot  of  dough ; 

I  told  the  neighbors  down  my  way 

That  lad  would  make  his  mark  some  day, 

And  now  that  he  has  made  plum  good 

I'm  glad,  because  I  knowed  he  would. 

It  hardly  seems  a  dozen  year 

Since  he  was  messin'  'round  us  here, 

Playin'  horse  and  catchin'  frogs 

And  tyin'  cans  to  all  the  dogs ; 

I  never  yet  could  see  just  how 


Page    eighty -Jour 


He  got  that  heifer  in  the  mow 

Of  Jim  Brown's  barn,  where  seven  men 

Could  scarcely  get  her  down  again, 

Or  how  he  got  Si's  chicken  coop 

On  top  of  Widow  Johnston's  stoop. 

But  that  was  years  and  years  ago, 

And  now  I'm  mighty  glad  to  know 

That  though  he's  traveled  'round  a  lot, 

Through  all  the  years  he's  not  forgot. 

He's  changed  a  heap  I  must  admit, 

But  then,  time  changes  all  a  bit, 

And  still  I'm  sure  I  recognize 

That  same  old  twinkle  in  his  eyes 

That  they  had  on  that  Autumn  day 

When  he  contrived  to  get  away 

From  school  (he'd  put  some  pepper  on  the  stove) 

And  teacher  (she  as  was  Miss  Grove) 

Says,  Richard,  you  come  here,  says  she, 

And  go  and  cut  a  switch  for  me. 

And  Richard  went,  for  she'd  begun  to  cough 

And  Dick  allowred  he  might  as  well  be  off. 

We  didn't  hear  from  him  for  quite  a  spell 

And  then  news  came  that  he  was  doin'  well 

A-drivin'  Major  Muscovite, 

A  horse  that  was  first  in  many  a  fight. 

That  boy  could  always  find  a  way 

Of  turning  labor  into  play 

And  gettin'  money  thick  and  fast 

Whether  he  was  first  or  last. 

Why,  one  day  up  there  in  De  Moin 

He  must  o'  made  a  lot  o'  coin, 

'Cause  I  went  up  to  see  him  drive, 


Page    eightu- 


And  goodness,  gracious  sakes  alive, 

How  he  performed,  and  how  he  tore 

Away  when  they  would  turn  to  score. 

The  man  who  stood  in  the  little  shed 

Would  ring  the  bell  and  shake  his  head, 

And  then  he'd  draw  a  small  red  flag 

And  wave  in  the  face  of  Richard's  nag, 

And  shout  as  they  jogged  back  up  to  score, 

If  you  do  it  again  you  get  fifty  more. 

My,  he  must  a  made  a  lot  of  dough, 

'Cause  they  never  once  beat  him  there  I  know, 

And  the  sun  was  gettin'  mighty  low 

Before  that  feller  shouted  Go. 

But  when  at  last  they  got  the  word, 

McMahon's  boy  flew  like  a  bird 

Around  the  turn,  in  front  a  dozen  rods, 

Too  far  to  overcome  the  odds. 

At  that  he  barely  won  the  heat, 

And  as  he  climbed  down  from  his  seat 

He  paused  a  moment  to  remark, 

'I  like  this  racin'  after  dark, 

It's  strange  how  nuts  from  little  acorns  grow, 

That  starter  never  could  say  Go. 

He'll  do  quite  well  to  tend  to  things  up  there, 

I'm  being  paid  to  win  with  this  old  mare.' 

And  later  on  I  heard  him  say 

That  he  had  found  the  only  way 

That  he  could  ever  win  a  race 

From  a  bunch  of  steeds  that  he  couldn't  outpace 

Was  to  commence  a  little  while  before 

The  rest  of  the  horses  left  the  score. 

And  I  knew  he  hit  upon  that  plan 


Page    e  i  g  h  I  y  - 1  i  x 


Long  years  before  he  became  a  man, 

So  that  was  the  reason  I  never  could  catch 

The  boy  who  raided  my  melon  patch. 

If  Richard  had  stayed  around  out  here 

He  might  have  been  an  auctioneer, 

Or  maybe  mayor  of  the  town, 

Or  like  as  not  we'd  sent  him  down 

To  Washington  to  make  our  laws 

That  we  don't  favor  much  because 

They're  far  too  dry,  and  then  I'll  bet 

We  could  have  kept  this  old  state  wet, 

And  if  it  was,  and  we  could  have  our  brew 

We'd  make  him  President,  that's  what  we'd  do. 

For  a  man  who  can  drive  a  trotter  straight 

I  would  trust,  at  the  helm  of  the  ship  of  state. 

I'm  glad  McMahon's  boy  made  good 

Because  I  always  said  he  would. 


Page     e  i  ft  h  I]/  -se.vc  F. 


TWILIGHT 

My  window  faces  toward  the  East 

And  as  I  wait 
The  twilight  steals  unheeded  o'er  the  bay, 

While  twinkling  warnings  from  the  Golden  Gate 
Beam  out  to  warn  the  vessels  on  their  way : 

Beneath  that  window  calla  lillies  bloom, 
The  California  hills  are  fresh  and  green, 

The  scent  of  roses  fills  my  room 
And  all  about  is  tranquil  and  serene; 

The  darkness  deepens  and  the  daylight  ends, 
The  scene  below  enthralls  me  not  the  least, 

I  dream  tonight  of  old-time  friends, 
My  window  faces  toward  the  East. 


Page     eighty-eight 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD 

You   would    hardly    recognize    it, 

It  seems  so  bleak  and  bare, 
For  the  fine  old  trees  are  absent 

That  once  guarded  it  with  care, 
And  the  peonies  and  snowballs 

That  blossomed  every  May 
Have  disappeared  completely 

Since  the  Old  Folks  went  away. 

The  climbing  rose  is  missing 
With  its  mass  of  scarlet  bloom, 

Gone  the  purple  lilac  bushes 
With  their  wealth  of  sweet  perfume, 


Page    c  i  g  htv -n  I  n  c 


And  the  shady  apple  orchard 

Where  the  toothsome  dainties  grew 

That  lured  me  on  my  way  from  school 
Alas  has  passed  from  view. 

The  little  elevation 

That  we  chose  to  call  a  hill 
Has  vanished  with  the  flowers 

And  the  murmuring  brook  is  still 
That  wandered  through  the  meadows 

Where  the  clover  dark  and  deep 
Watched  lovingly  above  it 

Till  it  sang  itself  to  sleep. 

The  old  red  crib  is  standing 

Where  the  golden  seed  corn  hung, 
Near  the  woodshed  where  we  gathered 

When  the  dinner  bell  had  rung, 
And  a  score  of  handsome  horses 

That  could  win  a  prize,  I  know, 
Had  been  safely  fed  and  cared  for 

In  the  stable  broad  and  low. 


Once  another  red-haired  youngster 

Daily  tramped  the  dusty  trail, 
And  shared  the  home-made  goodies 

From  each  shining  dinner  pail, 
Now  no  boyhood  pal  awaits  me 

For  the  auburn  locks  are  gray 
And  the  homestead's  bleak  and  lonely 

Since  the  Old  Folks  went  away. 


Page    ninety 


Just  across  the  fields  they're  sleeping 

Where  a  stately  pine  tree  stands 
And  points  its  silent  finger 

To  "a  house  not  made  with  hands.' 
Somehow  heaven  will  be  perfect 

When  we  view  it  up  above, 
If  we  find  those  precious  Old  Folks 

And  the  homestead  that  we  love. 


Page    ninety-one 


THE  OLD  WHITE  FIRE  TEAM 


Standing  there  upon  the  pavement 

In  a  vsleepy  sort  o'  way 
Is  a  snow-white  pair  of  horses 

That  were  once  called  dapple  gray, 
And  I  pause  in  admiration 

And  in  reverence,  as  I  seem 
To  sense  the  faithful  service 

Of  that  old  white  fire  team. 


Just  a  score  of  years  have  vanished 
Since  Old  Fox  first  heard  the  bell, 

And  Rags,  a  trifle  younger, 
Served  the  city  just  as  well ; 


Page    ninety    tv  o 


So  my  truant  memory  ranges 

To  the  things  that  time  has  wrought, 
As  I  ponder  o'er  the  changes 

Since  the  old  white  team  was  bought. 


Once  their  step  was  light  and  airy 

Like  a  winsome,  joyous  bride, 
But  the  buoyancy  departed 

With  the  dapples  from  their  side; 
Eyes  are  not  so  bright,  I  fancy, 

But  I  catch  the  old-time  gleam 
When  Haley  drops  the  harness 

On  the  old  white  fire  team. 


-\ 


Possibly  they're  not  so  speedy, 

Time  in  his  relentless  roll 
Has  demanded  quite  a  tribute 

And  collected  quite  a  toll; 
But  somehow  I've  a  notion 

That  Haley's  silvered  hair 
Is  due  to  his  devotion 

And  his  love  for  that  old  pair. 


They  have  shared  the  joys  and  sorrows 

Of  the  city  day  by  day, 
Joining  with  the  silent  mourners 

When  our  friends  were  laid  away, 
But  when  gayer  throngs  were  gathered 

They  would  champ  their  bits  and  prance 
To  the  strains  of  martial  music 

When  the  boys  came  home  from  France 


Page    ninety. three 


fffy 

^V  \  V  /~\  t 1 


When  the  old  team  came  to  serve  us 

Motor  trucks  were  still  unknown, 
But  they  answered  every  purpose 

Quite  unaided  and  alone; 
What  though  muddy  streets  overwhelmed  us, 

What  though  blizzards  filled  the  air, 
We  could  rest  securely  knowing 

That  the  old  white  team  was  there. 


Then  the  "onward  march  of  progress" 

Struck  the  city  with  a  zest, 
And  a  motor  truck  was  purchased 

That  the  agent  called  the  best ; 
I  remember  quite  distinctly 

How  he  in  his  long  discourse 
Depicted  mental  anguish 

At  the  passing  of  the  horse. 

Thus  their  fate  seemed  sealed  completely, 

But  the  wiser  heads  prevailed, 
And  we  kept  them  through  the  Winter, 

Lest  the  shiny  motor  failed ; 
Then  there  came  that  bitter  evening 

When  the  cruel  flames  appalled 
And  they  saved  our  homes  and  dear  ones 

While  the  handsome  truck  was  stalled. 


Now  I  wake  in  abject  horror 
When  the  bell  rings  after  dark, 

Lest  the  carburetor's  busted 

Or  the  spark  plugs  fail  to  spark ; 


Page     ninety -four 


And  although  I  hear  the  clatter 
And  the  noise  and  siren's  scream, 

I  listen  for  the  patter 

Of  the  old  white  fire  team. 

Years  will  come  and  in  their  coming 

They  will  bring  more  modern  ways 
To  fight  the  fire  demon 

Than  Haley  and  the  grays. 
Yet  to  them  is  due  the  glory 

And  as  long  as  fires  gleam, 
We  will  tell  the  old,  old  story 

Of  Haley  and  his  team. 


Page    n  i  n  e  t  y  -fi  v  e 


A   REAL   OPTIMIST 

"Dad,  what  is  a  horseman,"  a  youngster  inquired 
Of  a  horse-loving-  father  he  greatly  admired. 
"I  read  about  chauffeurs  and  cars  all  the  while 
But  it  seems  to  me  horsemen  are  quite  out  of  style, 
And  teacher  remarked  that  I  should  not  repeat, 
But  that  she  believed  horsemen  were  quite  obsolete, 
Now  just  what  she  meant  I  can't  well  make  out, 
So  I  thought  I  would  ask  you  what  it  was  about." 


Page    ninety-six 


The  Year  Book  Dad  studied  was  closed  with  a  slap 

As  he  cuddled  the  questioner  up  in  his  lap ; 

"My  boy,  you  may  tell  her  I  find  as  a  rule 

That   the   most   of   life's    lessons    are   not   learned   in 

school. 

The  love  of  a  trotter  you  don't  get  from  books 
And  you  can't  pick  a  pacer  because  of  his  looks. 
A  fellow  can't  chum  with  a  horse  every  day 
Without  being  bigger  and  better  some  way ; 
The  friends  and  the  horses  most  trusted  and  tried 
Are  the  ones  that  will  stand  without  being  tied. 
You  can  tell  her  for  me  that  a  horseman's  a  chap 
Who  knows  all  the  principal  towns  on  the  map ; 
He  can  give  you  the  dates  when  the  races  all  start, 
He  knows  when  the  trains  all  arrive  and  depart : 
He  can  give  you  the  name  and  the  breeding  offhand 
Of  every  sensational  steed  in  the  land. 
A  horseman's  a  fellow  who  laughs  at  defeat 
And  smilingly  comes  to  the  scratch  every  heat, 
And  whether  it's  Winter  or  Summer  or  Fall, 
He's  true  to  his  partner  that  stands  in  the  stall. 
Though  the  rain  spoils  the  races  he  knows  in  the  end 
It  will  nourish  the  grass  for  his  four-footed  friend. 
A  horseman's  a  chap  who  will  give  his  last  sou 
To  a  friend  in  distress  if  he  knows  he's  true  blue; 
He  reads  in  the  coals  of  the  old  office  stove 
The  future  success  of  that  colt  that  he  drove, 
And  each  fleecy  cloud  in  the  blue  of  the  sky 
Means  a  winning  for  him  in  the  sweet  bye-and-bye. 
A  horseman's  a  man,  as  I  told  you  before, 
Who  don't  get  his  knowledge  from  any  book  store; 
He  invoices  all  of  the  pleasure  he  gets 


VN 


Page    ninety-seven 


And  closes  each  season  without  the  regrets ; 

If  his  trotter  don't  win  quite  as  much  as  he  should 

He  knows  that  NEXT  YEAR  he  is  bound  to  make 

good. 

Just  say  to  your  teacher,  your  daddy  insists, 
That  a  horseman's  the  greatest  of  all  optimists." 


Page     ni  nety -  eight 


THE  BLACKSMITH  SHOP 

There's  a  sleepy  little  village 

Nestling  in  a  vast  domain, 
Guarded  by  the  seried  corn  fields 

And  by  shocks  of  golden  grain, 
Just  a  half  a  dozen  houses 

And  a  church  and  school  and  store, 
And  a  dingy  little  blacksmith  shop 

With  pictures  on  the  door. 

There's  no  slippery,  treacherous  pavement, 

There's  no  sidewalk  and  no  curb, 
There's  no  smoky,  rumbling  railroad 

And  no  street  cars  to  disturb, 
Yet  I'd  guide  my  wandering  footsteps 

To  this  quiet  scene  and  stop 
With  head  bowed  low  in  reverence 

For  that  little  blacksmith  shop. 


Page    fit  n  ety -fit  n  e 


^'UOlE4j    \f 

'Twas  a  sort  of  civic  center 

In  the  days  of  long  ago ; 
With  its  welcome  roof  a  refuge 

From  the  sun  or  from  the  snow, 
And  the  smithy's  cheery  greetings 

Always  tempted  us  to  stray 
To  the  dusky  little  blacksmith  shop 

That  stood  across  the  way. 

With  its  windows  barred  and  broken 

And  its  moss-grown  shingles  curled, 
It  was  still  in  boyhood  fancies 

Quite  the  best  in  all  the  world ; 
For  its  weather-beaten  battens 

Would  flame  anew  each  Spring 
With  the  gorgeous  new  creations 

That  the  poster  man  would  bring. 

Envied  was  the  lucky  culprit 

Teacher  stood  upon  the  floor, 
For  he  could  watch  proceedings 

Through  the  open  schoolhouse  door; 
He  could  see  the  poster  fellow 

Clean  the  little  blacksmith  shop 
And  paste  another  picture 

From  the  bottom  to  the  top. 

Some  kids  loved  the  circus  posters 
With  the  lions  in  their  raa'e 

o 

And  a  lady  calmly  sitting 

In  the  tawny  tiger's  cage; 
But  the  picture  most  entrancing 

That  glued  me  to  the  spot 
Was  the  rearing,  plunging  horses 

Entered  at  the  county  trot. 


One      hundred 


Four — a  bay,  a  gray,  a  chestnut 

And  a  black  one  on  a  break, 
While  his  driver's  frantic  efforts 

Caused  my  boyish  heart  to  ache, 
Thus  I  stood  there  in  the  gloaming 

Of  that  happy  Summer  day 
When  the  trotting  bills  were  posted 

On  the  shop  across  the  way. 

I  have  seen  the  Rosa  Bonheurs 

And  the  Keiths  and  Rembrandts,  too, 
Of  many  famous  pictures 

I  have  since  then  had  a  view ; 
But  there's  nothing  halts  my  footsteps 

And  causes  me  to  stop, 
Like  a  flaming  trotting  poster 

Pasted  on  a  blacksmith  shop. 


THE   SPORT  WORTH   WHILE 

There's  a  mighty  satisfaction 

When  the  fish  are  biting  good, 
And  you  quickly  get  your  limit 

As  a  lucky  angler  should ; 
To  the  chap  who  is  a  hunter 

It  must  be  a  joy  indeed 
To  bag  a  brace  of  mallards 

Every  time  you  draw  a  bead ; 
There  must  be  a  lot  of  pleasure 

In  the  games  of  golf  or  chess 
If  your  winning  and  your  partner 

Is  plainly  in  distress ; 
But  oh,  the  joy  worth  knowing 

That  nothing  equals  quite, 
Is  to  feel  the  thrill  of  rapture 

When  your  trotter's  going  right. 


One      hundred    two 


\ 


When  the  morning  light  is  breaking 

To  the  robin's  sweet  refrain, 
And  you  grab  your  cakes  and  coffee 

Like  you  had  to  catch  a  train, 
When  your  wife  in  blank  amazement 

Wonders  why  you're  up  so  soon, 
And  explains  to  yawning  kiddies, 

"Daddy  won't  be  home  till  noon." 
When  you  don  your  old  white  Stetson 

And  kiss  them  at  the  door, 
As  you  pause  to  fill  the  wood-box 

That  you've  passed  so  oft  before, 
Then  it  is  that  life's  worth  living 

And  the  old  world's  mighty  bright, 
'Cause  his  name's  among  the  entries 

And  your  trotter's  working  right. 


"BOOTS  ALL  ON  HIM 


One    hundred       hree 


When  you  reach  the  dusty  oval 

And  you  say  to  Windy  Al, 
"Just  put  the  boots  all  on  him 

And  I'll  step  him  up,  old  Pal." 
When  you  take  the  sulky  gently 

From  its  peg  up  on  the  wall, 
And  blow  up  the  pesky  tires 

That  were  none  too  good  last  Fall, 
When  you  jog  him  till  he's  ready 
And  turn  him  at  the  score, 
And  he  seems  to  pull  you  faster 

Than  he  ever  has  before, 
Then  it  is  you  count  your  money, 

For  he's  charmed  you  by  his  flight, 
And  you  can't  be  pessimistic 

When  your  trotter's  working  right. 


One     hundred    /our 


And  so  to  all  you  sportsmen 

Misguided  but  sincere, 
I've  a  bit  of  information 

I  would  whisper  in  your  ear. 
If  you  enjoy  your  fishing 
Or  any  sport  you've  found, 
If  you  like  to  go  a-hunting 

Or  chase  the  pill  around, 
Just  keep  it  up  but  take  a  ride 

Behind  a  horse  at  speed, 
I  will  not  advise  you  further, 

There  won't  be  any  need, 
You'll  sell  the  whole  equipment 

Before  tomorrow  night, 
If  you'll  sit  behind  a  trotter 

Or  a  pacer  when  he's  right. 


One    hundred      /  toe 


FINIS 

The  tan-bark  ring  is  hushed  and  still 
And  fitful  shadows  play 
Where  crafty  riders  rode  at  will 
The  steeds  of  yesterday; 
And  yet  how  like  the  ring  is  life, 
We  primp  and  strut  and  bravely  try 
For  one  brief  moment  in  the  strife 
To  shine  triumphant  in  the  Judge's  eye ; 
Some  day  the  silvery  bugle's  tone 
Will  call  us  to  the  Great  Unknown, 
And  when  Old  Gabriel  blows  his  blast 
And  Peter  swings  the  gate  at  last 
We'll  find  performance  counts  far  more 
Than  conformation  in  the  score 
That's  kept  up  there,  and  so  my  friend 
Let  us  so  live  that  in  the  end 
When  all  life's  show  is  through 
We'll  get  a  BLUE. 


dred    six 


AN  INITIAL  PINE  OF  25  CENTS 


LD  2l-100m-8,'34 


YC   14447 


5242 


\      cj^Xxvx 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


